The story I’m about to tell has very little to do with leadership in the outdoors, DO, or Davidson and everything to do with how all these tangentially helped me fulfill the requirements of the Keller Scholarship I had received two summers ago for “experiential travelling in Greece and/or Germany.”
But maybe I should start from the beginning (or, maybe in medias res)…
Of course it is raining. And not just raining but pouring. I’m beginning to think that’s all Germany’s known for (and beer and bratwurst, I suppose). I had just spent nine days in Munich, a bustling metropolis I thought would kick start a sunny, warm month of exploring Germany, and I don’t know if I saw the sun for more than two hours each day there. But, right now, I have no option. I will press on because it is the only way home—and by “home” I mean the hostel room in the outskirts of Heidelberg that I share with six other constantly-changing visitors. Well, maybe this is not the only way (I did in fact just take a detour up into the woods, found a solitary sculpture overlooking an open field, happened upon a unnatural pile of downed trees, cleanly chopped on either end, and awaiting, I imagine, a trip to some windowless paper-making factory, and so on and so forth). But now, I am, in all surety, back on “the path.”
This path, though, is really just little signs, offering me direction and encouragement (to be honest, they’re just street signs with the image of a biker, the name of the next town, and the mileage to iti (I’ve gone from 8 or 10 or 12 km to 3 km, so improvement)). Despite this objective truth, I imagine them as green arrows that silently whisper, yes, go on, explore, don’t worry about the rain, you’re all good.
I can’t really point to where I am on a map (somewhere in between Heidelberg and the town I had just walked to—it started with an “N,” I think), but I feel relatively safe. I arrive town “N,” where I had intended to go—I know I wanted to walk along the river, and I notice the bike route signs and decide I am in for an adventure (in the beginning, “10 km” seemed so doable). I explore the ancient, crumbling tower next to the stone church; I pick up, admire, and take a picture of a snail (I consider this my “appreciate nature/living animals” part of the walk); I had explore town “N” (cobblestone streets, disconcertedly deserted, cottages mimicking some notion of a medieval, feudal Germany with its sparse pockets of tiny villages, clustered around an impressive royal castle in Heidelberg—where I am staying and the only reason I am in this town. It’s Sunday, so, naturally, the castle is closed today.).
And now, exhausted, drenched, I recover the path. I’m on the home stretch, and I recognize evidence of civilization—the abandoned store across the river I had passed on the way out (the store hadn’t been that far from Heidelberg, right?). Every now and then, I see a road leading up the steep river bank to what I assume are developments like the one I had walked through now hours ago, and bridges—yes, bridges because there’s traffic that needs to cross the river—and traffic means people, means Heidelberg, means hostel, shower, dry clothes, rest, success). I think to myself—this is definitely what I would call “experiential travel.”